I find her seated in the high backed chair,
hunched like a squirrel with a nut,

her cheekbones more pronounced,
eyes still pin-sharp, hair snow-white.

I catch my breath. Does my head touch the ceiling?
Behind her the new garden large enough

for recliner and scented roses, a studio
in the old stone courtyard with her tools,

and palette, paint-tubes, brushes – lined up, ready
for painting trips. Yet here she is,

a thimble tininess. I bring food
from the kitchen, take the plate to her

as I’d feed a robin, imagine at any moment
she’ll float through the open window.